Afterword
by lostinabook
Summary: The story may be over, but Autor has yet to determine his own ending. Post-series, spoilers. Rated T for mild violence.
1. The beginning is an ending

Title: Afterword  
Author: lostinabook  
Genre: Angst/General  
Rating: T (for references to violence)  
Disclaimer: Princess Tutu does not belong to me; it is the property of Ito Ikuko.

--  
Chapter One: The end is the beginning…  
--

The study had become a mess.

Shelves had been overturned, inkwells smashed. Books lay uselessly on the floor, their covers rent like broken wings, papers scattered across the floor like discarded feathers. The door—needless to say—had been completely destroyed, with only a few fragments of wood left hanging on the hinges. Ironically enough, sunlight poured in through the open space and down the short hallway, but instead of illuminating the room, the light only threw the study into deeper shadows.

Autor sat dejectedly by the wreckage of the front door, his legs crossed and chin resting on one hand. His glasses were askew, uniform ripped at the shoulder, and a bruise the color of his hair bloomed across his left cheekbone. The Academy student was staring out into the destruction of the room, but didn't seem to see it. Autor's vision was glazed over, his mind far away…

The events of only a few hours ago kept replaying themselves over and over in his mind. In a matter of minutes, the study that had taken him years to complete, the culmination of all his research, his dreams, gone, shattered, forever.

And, of course, Fakir had to run off as soon as it was all over. He had dashed by him without so much as a thank you, not even a glance of gratitude. Autor _had saved his life_…if it hadn't been for him…

But the real story-spinner (Autor's jaw involuntarily tightened) got to be the hero in the end. …As for him, he had nothing now.

_And to think, I have volumes upon volumes of books that I want to write…_

A small gust of air blew into the room, ruffling the papers on the floor and snapping Autor out of his thoughts. Sighing deeply, he glanced over at the old man who laid spread out on the floor next to him. Autor had dragged him out of the rubble piled by the doorway shortly after Fakir had left. He wasn't really sure why he had done so. Maybe the shock of everything that had happened in the last few hours was causing him to behave irrationally.

Autor looked closer. It didn't seem like he was breathing. The black cloak the old man was wearing made him look like a dead vulture. Autor kicked at him a little. The man snorted and mumbled in response.

…_Doesn't matter anyway,_ Autor thought, resting his head on top of his knees. _The story is done… The true descendant ended it. _

After a moment's thought, Autor shifted his weight so that he could face the leader of the Book Men. "So what are you going to do now?"

His voice sounded strange in the broken room. "Are you going to continue chasing Drosselmeyer's descendant?"

The man didn't answer. Autor wasn't surprised. He never answered any of his questions, conscious or not.

"Or…" His voice dropped to below a whisper, as though he were talking to himself. "…Will you pursue your own story?"

Where should he begin? How could he replace what had been lost…?

_If I had the power… If I could just write a story… just one!_

Autor's mind was beginning to go in circles. He didn't understand. At first, Fakir had been something akin to a test subject; Autor wanted to see if he was right about—no, he corrected himself, he _knew_ all along that he was right. He had only wanted to see his theory in action before he tried it himself. Autor hadn't counted on Fakir being _chosen_, of all things. Fakir hadn't even known that he was a direct descendant of Drosselmeyer!

If it hadn't been for him… If he hadn't shared his knowledge…

_That's why I need your help, Autor!_

_And all I'm saying is, why should I?_

…Why had he bothered with helping him? Fakir had obtained the one thing in the world that Autor truly wanted—the power of the story-spinners. It would have made more sense to shun Fakir, or, at least, return to his own studies to find another way…

But he decided to help Fakir. Autor had been too excited at the revelation that his hypothesis was correct, that the town was truly controlled by stories, Drosselmeyer's stories, no less. He had been the last of the story-spinners, the legendary author who had died so long ago, and yet his power was still potent, defying the Book Men who had sent him to the grave.

And Fakir… Fakir had set himself against his ancestor by deciding to rewrite the story. For Autor, the moment was a golden opportunity; finally, he had been given the chance to observe the truth of how story-spinning worked, to see if Drosselmeyer's practices and procedures really had a bearing on whether the story became reality or if it was just coincidence.

It was a one-time opportunity that finished everything.

Honestly, he hadn't expected that Fakir would really end the story. Autor was only there to observe and advise…until the leader of the Book Men had showed up and he was forced to play bodyguard as well.

Autor knew that he had done the right thing. Fakir had been explicit enough; due to the Raven's impending release, the entire town was in danger. The story had needed to end, one way or another.

But… was it worth it?

Autor looked around at the ruins of the study once more...

The old man suddenly stirred, causing Autor to scuttle sideways until he was sitting against the opposite wall. He didn't want to be anywhere near the story-stopper while he was conscious. The leader of the Book Men sat up, blinking his saucer-plate eyes and looking around until he spotted Autor.

"Did I…miss something?"

Autor's hand involuntarily twitched. "The story is over."

"…He ended it?"

Autor decided not to merit such a stupid question with an answer.

"Well then…" The old man got to his feet. "It seems that we acted too hastily once again."

"_You_ were the one who took rash action." Autor could barely keep the anger out of his voice. If it hadn't been for the Book Men's stupid obsession…

"Yes… I can feel it now. The control is gone." He paused. "You haven't seen my axe, have you?"

Autor glowered at him.

"…I see. Well, I'd better get going." The old man began making his way through the rubble to the front door. His lopsided silhouette made a dark shadow against the bright sunlight.

"Is that all you're going to say?!" Autor rose to his feet, hands shaking. That stupid, _senile_, old—

He could feel the man's eyes on him, but couldn't see anything but a vague shadow in the bright sunlight. After the darkness of the raven's wings, the light was almost _blinding_…

"My role here is done." His voice sounded like the creak of a book binding as it was closed.

"What about you? Are you going to continue to stand in the darkness of shattered dreams?"

"I'll do whatever I feel like!" Autor's voice cracked as he shouted. He was absolutely seething at this point. His fists clenched, his shoulders shook… He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do to the old man, but it was definitely going to involve violence.

The music student opened his mouth again to give the old man a warning… but he was already gone. There was nothing left but the blinding sunlight.

Autor turned around and kicked the wall, _hard_, causing dust to fall from the ceiling.

_He didn't care, he didn't even apologize…_ Autor ground his teeth in frustration. With a few quick strides, he crossed the room and overturned the writing desk—the only thing left standing in the room—relishing the shattering noises that the last of the inkwells made as they crashed to the floor. Before the echoes had faded, he had grabbed one of the still-intact books off the floor, tearing out its pages in rapid sucession, throwing them in the air until he was in the center of a snowstorm of words.

_My role here is done…_

"That's right." Autor watched the papers flutter about him, unaware of the biting tone he had taken. "_You're_ done. _I'm_ done. Everything relating to Drosselmeyer no longer carries weight on this world. His stories are as dead as he is."

But even though he said the words, Autor couldn't bring himself to believe them.

"What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?!" The story couldn't be over, not yet. He had so much more that he had wanted to do… It wasn't fair…

The pages had fallen, the book binding was empty. Once again, Autor sunk defeated to the floor.

Fairy tales overflowed with nameless supporting characters. The evil stepmother, the kindly child, the strict master, the doting parents, the treasonous brothers, the beautiful tempress…

But what had been _his_ role? Why had his part ended before he had even known what he had been put in the story to _do_?

The grandfather clock in the corner stared balefully at him.

Autor blinked uncomprehendingly. When had he acquired a clock for the study…? Surely he would have remembered bringing something that size into the room. It hardly looked as if it would fit through the doorway.

Its cracked face gleamed in the poor light, the hands no longer moving. Dust covered its wooden frame; it seemed that the clock had been broken long before last night. Autor frowned, once more trying to remember if he had brought it to the study…had he read something about Drosselmeyer liking clocks and had gone out and bought one…?

But the memories simply weren't there. _Maybe it's always been here_, Autor mused, _and I just didn't notice it. _

The breeze wound its way into the room again, almost gleefully scattering the new pages that Autor had thrown to the ground.

_How could I have gotten so caught up that I can't even remember what I did or didn't bring into this study?_ Strangely enough, the thought made Autor vaguely disgusted with himself.

The last page fell to the floor, bearing the words **THE END**.


	2. The Cost of Dreams

Title: Afterword  
Author: lostinabook  
Genre: Angst/General  
Rating: T (for references to violence)  
Disclaimer: Princess Tutu does not belong to me; it is the property of Ito Ikuko

--  
Chapter Two: Cost of Dreams  
--

The Academy's library was only good for research, Autor concluded.

It was a stifling place, filled with dry tomes stuffed with even drier facts. One touch and the whole façade could collapse into dust. There was no possibility for imagination in a place such as this. The very atmosphere of the room seemed to suck out every last drop of creative juice left in the mind, leaving only a cold, silent, dusty reality.

Autor and the library had a lot in common.

He sat motionless at one of the tables, watching dust motes spin in the sunlight drifting lazily through the window behind him. A book lay open on the table in front of him, ignored. Autor didn't even know what he was reading; he had only grabbed it off the shelf so as to have an excuse for being in the library at all.

Autor had become numb. He went through the motions of everyday life, following his schedule exactly the way it had been before the ending… But his senses were dulled, his feelings nonexistent, his heart as still as the library air. He now viewed the world through soundproofed glass; he could see everything, but there was a barrier separating him and normal people.

People with dreams.

Autor had chosen his role. He would forget everything that he had aspired to be and live his life the way fate dictated it. Like any other supporting character, he would leave denying destiny to those who played a main role.

For a moment, Autor's mind rebelled against the idea of being a "supporting character," but was swiftly quieted as Logic reminded him that kind of thinking was what had destroyed the study.

And his dreams.

If he couldn't have both, then he would have neither.

Giggling sounded from behind a bookshelf and a couple came into view, both tall, one blond, the other brunette. Autor ignored them at first, turning vacant eyes back to his book.

_One of the archetypes of fairy tales…_

They wouldn't stop _laughing_…

_The perfect couple…_

Why couldn't they go somewhere else? There was no reason for them to be here…

_The happily ever after…_

"**Will you please be** _**quiet**_!"

"_It seems that I've fallen in love with you."_

"…_Just go home."_

The couple stared dumbly at him, both their faces an identical shade of red. Autor sat back down slowly, looking away from them, his eyes resting on the book's pages, but not reading the words. In another moment, they were gone.

_I never should have shown Fakir how to end the story. There was still so much that I needed to do…_

_But it was my choice, and this is my own punishment. I have to accept what fate has given me._

"Autor?"

He blinked, but didn't bother looking up. He knew that voice… but hadn't heard it for some time.

"Hello, Malen."

The green-haired girl shifted her weight nervously, clutching her sketchbook to her chest. She bit her lip. "H-How are you?"

"Fine. Better than fine." _I've lost all sensation of feeling._ "You?"

"…N-Not bad."

Dust motes were still circling in the shafts of light, their numbers infinite…

"…Um…" Malen's glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose. "…Did something happen to you, Autor? You seem… different somehow."

Autor slowly looked up at her, giving her the same vacant gaze as the book. Malen's hands noticeably tightened around her sketchbook.

"Lots of things happen in the space of two years, Malen."

The silence of the library was ringing in his ears, as if the books were crying out for him to return, they had so much more that they wanted to tell him…

"You continued to focus on your art, and I my research. Siblings aren't meant to be joined at the hip forever, you know."

It was surprising how hollow his voice sounded…

"But Autor—"

Malen bit her lip again and sat down across the table from him with a sigh.

There was something missing in the silence…

"Please tell me what's wrong." Malen's eyes shone with genuine concern. Autor couldn't remember a time when she had looked so sad.

"Nothing's wrong. I can take care of myself."

"Autor, I'm not just going to leave you here. I'm your sister, and… I know that we haven't been on the best of terms since… But you've really been worrying me lately."

"You don't need to concern yourself with me." _You deserve better than to get bogged down with my broken dreams._

"Why do you…"

Malen's wide eyes began glistening with tears. Autor felt a brief pang of guilt, but it was quickly swallowed up by the overwhelming numbness.

"You always change, Autor! Something happens, and you completely reinvent yourself!"

Autor blinked listlessly.

"You used to love your music, lose yourself when you played… and you played beautifully, Autor, you wrote pieces that could rival that of the masters! You told me that it was your dream to compose a ballet—remember that?"

The tears were still there, on the verge of spilling, but Malen kept her voice even and her volume low. She had always been passionate yet logical. Autor had forgotten about that. She was always the one who made him think…

"You started watching the ballet students, remember? You wanted to write music for them—you were the one that told me that I should use one of them as a model for my drawings." Malen rubbed the edge of her sketchbook lightly.

"But then—"

_I found a piece of Drosselmeyer's records._

_Everything that I needed to begin was there… He had been one of my favorite authors since I was a child, but I had never been able to appreciate the true genius of his work until I read his outside commentary on his process… the history of the story-spinners, the vague threat of the Book Men, and a fleeting mention of a man who would later become connected to my father…_

"—And you became obsessed."

_I was obsessed._

"You didn't want to be a pianist anymore. You wanted to be a writer. We'd never heard you say anything like that before."

_I wanted to cement my place in the story._

"And now you're… you're just…_lifeless_. …Please, Autor. Tell me what happened."

_In the end, everyone's a marionette._

Autor didn't want to talk. To be honest, he didn't know what was wrong with him. It wasn't until the study had been ruined that he realized how much his research had become a part of who he was.

_Cutting out everything else… Nothing was left but story, where one could do whatever they pleased…_

"…Do I have to guess, Autor?" There was genuine pain in her voice now.

_I'm sorry. I don't have any answers for you._

"…Is it about a girl?"

Autor heard himself gasp. The shield surrounding his frozen emotions gave way as the memory of _her_ resurfaced, leaving only pain in its wake.

"_There's no way that I could stop from loving you now."_

"…_Just go home."_

"_Rue_," he breathed.

A single tear fell on the open pages.

"Oh, Autor…!"

The next thing he knew, Malen's arms were wrapped around him. "It's okay… It's okay… You can cry…"

He was… crying?

"She's gone… she…"

He couldn't say it. Malen didn't know. Autor had only told her that he was researching their ties to Drosselmeyer, nothing more. There had been no need to tell her about the story-spinners…

"Who's gone?"

"Rue."

"…Okay, Rue. How long did you know her?"

How long did he… What kind of question was that? Autor roughly broke away from Malen's embrace.

"You know who she is!"

"Autor, wha—"

"She was the girl I used to watch perform! The one I told you to use for a model! She was—"

_Perfect._

"Autor, you never…" Malen looked away for a moment and then spoke in a calmer, more even voice. "You never talked about anyone in particular from the ballet school. Who is this girl?"

His hands were shaking. All of his emotion had flooded back into him in that brief instant, right when he said her name…

_There's no way I could stop from loving you now._

"_Rue_. From the advanced class. Raven hair and ruby eyes. She the best dancer that this school has… had." He fought back the lump that was rising in his throat. "…But she's gone now. She's not coming back."

The look of worried confusion had returned to Malen's face. "Autor, I've been observing the advanced class for over a year now for my drawing, and I… there was never a girl like that there."

The silence of the books now resembled a high-pitched screaming.

"_What?_"

"Autor, what's wrong with you?"

He wasn't listening anymore. His mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what Malen had just told him.

_Is that why I haven't heard anyone even question her absence?_

_What happened to her when the story ended?_

_Did she truly return with the prince?_

_Or…_

Autor gritted his teeth.

"_Fakir_."

He stalked towards the door; Malen blocked his path. Her eyes were frantic now—his rapid mood swings from numb to depressed to rage had apparently scared her.

"Autor, what in the world are you—!"

He shoved her out of the way, the echoing sound of her hitting the floor following after him like a ghost. It didn't matter right now. He would fix everything later. Right now, he wanted answers.

_Maybe he didn't end it properly after all._

A strange smile crept across his face.

_And I will fix it._


	3. Storyspinner

Title: Afterword  
Author: lostinabook  
Genre: Angst/General  
Rating: T (for references to violence)  
Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and its characters do not belong to me; they are the creations of Ito Ikuko and I am just a fan who likes to write. 3

--  
Chapter Three: Story-spinner  
--

Autor didn't find him that day, or the day after. It was almost as if Fakir had become as elusive and untouchable as the man he had inherited his powers from.

At the very least, however, the revelation that Malen had given him had snapped him out of his numbed state. Autor was no longer mentally crippled by the loss of his study. In fact, his mind had been working a full capacity since he discovered Rue's disappearance.

Logic coupled with his own vast store of knowledge quickly laid bare to him the facts of this new world. Firstly—and most obviously—Malen's apparent forgetfulness was too coincidental to be a mere fluke. Through investigation, Autor quickly discovered that others had gone missing as well, but no one seemed to question their absence. Even with some prodding, no one seemed to remember them at all.

Also, the animal-people of Kinkan—who had been just as average and mundane as ordinary humans when the town was still controlled by story—had disappeared as well. Some had reverted to completely animal forms, as was the case with Neko-sensei, the now-former ballet teacher whom Autor had found with a cat wife and a litter of kittens. Others had become human and continued on with life as usual (although Autor couldn't help but be wary of the pigtailed little girl who used to be a crocodile).

All of this couldn't only be due to the end of Drosselmeyer's control over Kinkan Town, Autor concluded. Well, it could be the reason for the animal-human reversions, but spontaneous memory loss? It didn't add up…

If everyone in town had been forced to forget the story when it ended, then why had he remembered? Autor's brain couldn't come up with a solution to the paradox.

_Fakir… where are you?_

The successor to the story-spinners, although hard to find, most definitely had not vanished with the others. If anything, he had become even more popular as the sole male dancer in the advanced ballet class. It was almost _sickening_, hearing the girls who had once idolized Mytho worship _him_, of all people.

But, despite his newfound fame, Fakir apparently was hardly ever seen outside of ballet classes (which, of course, had to coincide with Autor's music lessons, so there was no chance of catching him there). Rumors abounded as to where he spent his time, one of which claimed that he had been seen by the pond, writing.

Autor had accepted that Fakir was manipulating the memories of the townspeople without another thought. It _was_, after all, the most logical explanation.

_I knew that he wasn't worthy of such power!_

Now, all he had to do was find him. Talk to him. Force him to uncover the truth that Autor already knew.

_It should have been_ me_._

Autor walked faster down the empty hallway, continuing to let his convictions run freely in his head. He would _make_ Fakir tell him what happened to Rue. …How exactly he would accomplish that, he didn't know, but his mind was set.

Preaching freedom from control and then manipulating the town himself…

_It should have been me._

Almost as if in answer to his thoughts—or, maybe, in defiance of them—Fakir appeared seemingly out of nowhere, further down the hall.

Autor froze on the spot, his thoughts drying up expect for one that repeated itself over and over in his head like a mocking mantra:

_It should have been me._

_It should have been me._

_It should have been me._

The story spinner seemed to be just as lost in thought as Autor was a moment ago. He had paused a mere few yards away, apparently looking at something that only he could see, ignoring Autor's shocked gaze entirely.

Fakir began to walk away.

"Ah!" Without realizing when he had regained mobility, Autor was chasing after him. "W-Wait!"

Fakir paused for a moment, glancing quickly over his shoulder to see who was calling him, and then coldly continued down the hall.

"I said _wait_!" Autor awkwardly slid to a stop, but Fakir continued his pace. This was _not_ going as planned. _At all_.

"I don't have time for whatever it is that you want to talk to me about."

Autor's fists clenched. Fakir was just brushing him off like some annoying fly. After all he'd done…!

"Don't you dare ignore me, Fakir! I know what you've done to this city!"

Fakir stopped, turning around slowly to face him, his green eyes condescending and slightly irritated.

"…What are you taking about?"

Autor could feel himself shaking. "I _remember_, Fakir, so don't try putting on an act. _Where is Rue?_"

Fakir closed his eyes and sighed slightly, as if in exasperation.

"That's none of your concern, memories or not. I suggest that you keep going to wherever you were headed." He turned away again.

Autor's fury was burning up inside him. He had never hated anyone so much as he did at this moment.

_He doesn't see me as a threat. He doesn't care about what I think, what I feel…_

_All that mattered to him was that the story ended the way that_ he _wanted it to, with no regard for anyone else._

_Rue…_

Autor snapped.

With an inhuman howl of rage, Autor tackled Fakir from behind, slamming him into the wall, and punching him on the side of his face.

Physically letting go of his anger was the sweetest ecstasy.

He reached around to punch him again, but Fakir was ready for him this time. The story-spinner grabbed Autor's hands and shoved them both away from the wall. Autor began to yell at him as they grappled with each other.

"HOW DARE YOU! I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO HELP YOU! YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A DAMNED HYPOCRITE, MESSING WITH PEOPLE'S MEMORIES LIKE THEY WERE PLAYTHI—"

In an instant, Autor lost his footing. In a strange déjà-vu moment, Fakir grabbed the front of Autor's shirt, shoving him against the opposite wall. His green eyes had turned to sharp slits. It occurred to Autor that Fakir might have been holding back on him until now.

"Let me make one thing _clear_. I don't play with people's memories. That was an effect of the story ending. I don't know _why_, but it wasn't _me_. And I don't want to hear any of your _damned_ accusations anymore."

Autor stared at the deep purple bruise across Fakir's cheek and was very proud of himself.

"The story _ended_, Autor. Why can't you just go on with your life like everyone else?"

Fakir released his grip and began walking away once more. Autor slumped against the wall, shocked, unaware that his glasses were now hanging off one ear. This was turning into a disaster. He had to get Fakir to confess to what he'd done. If he couldn't at least have _that_, then…

"I tell them! I'll tell the Book Men what you've done!"

Fakir didn't pause.

"And… and I'll…"

He had to make Fakir stop.

"…I'll tell them to go after your duck girlfriend in order to find _you_."

Autor instantly saw that he had found Fakir's soft point. Not only did he stop, but his shoulders stiffened as if overcome by a sudden fear.

_Of course, of course! Why didn't I think of it earlier?_

"…What did you say?" As he turned, Autor saw the shock on his face.

"Don't think that it's not _obvious_, Fakir. Did you think that I was _deaf_, not hearing you speak the same words that you were _writing_?" Autor's drawling tone clearly had an effect, as he saw a flicker of realization in Fakir's eyes.

"You can only write stories about _her_, correct? She must mean _something_ to you, being your muse." Autor grinned, relishing the pain on Fakir's face. "The Book Men will find that information very interesting, after they find out what you've done. After all, if there is no muse—"

Autor's head suddenly slammed against the stone floor, sending his glasses flying. Stars sparking in his eyes, he struggled to get up but was pushed down again, this time by hands clasped around his throat. Fakir's voice snarled above him.

"_Never_ threaten her."

Autor could feel his windpipe collapsing under the pressure, dimly registering that his mouth was gasping like a fish. He couldn't see anything but a fuzzy gray cloud and the bright sparks that still hadn't faded…

"I could care less what the hell you think I did. You'd better make sure that you keep your mouth shut if you see me again in the near future."

Autor gasped again, and the pressure suddenly released. He nearly choked on the fresh air that suddenly entered his lungs. He lay on the floor, completely limp, suddenly with a healthy appreciation for the simple task of breathing.

He could dimly hear the sound of someone walking away…

After a few minutes, Autor cleared his throat and tried to sit up. The world spun around him. He slumped back down to the floor, wondering where his glasses had fallen. Everything was just a blur of colorful shapes without them, which wasn't any help to his already aching head.

But despite this, Autor was already formulating a plan for what to do next. Confronting Fakir had been an idiotic idea, he admitted that, but the situation had given him a better course of action.

Fakir obviously thought that he wouldn't try anything out of fear, otherwise he wouldn't have let him go like this. The new story-spinner couldn't have been more mistaken. Autor hated violence, but he never liked to give up.

If he couldn't make Fakir admit and reverse what he had done, he would just have to go the other route and make good on his threat.

It was high time that the Book Men got involved.


	4. Curse

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu and its characters do not belong to me; they are the creations of Ito Ikuko and I am just a fan who likes to write. All rights go to their proper owners.

(A/N: And after a very long wait, this story is back on track! For those of you who are still reading, thank you for your patience. Only one more chapter to go after this!)

* * *

Chapter Four: Curse

* * *

The road to bookstore felt longer than usual. Autor retraced his steps mentally, wondering if he had accidentally taken a wrong turn. He squinted at the shop signs in the fading twilight. No, he was going the right way. It was probably just the anticipation that was making it seem so long. He had headed straight for the stronghold of the Book Men right after his confrontation with Fakir. Autor had to act _now_, while his threat was still fresh and the story-spinner's guard was down. He rubbed his throat grudgingly. He'd show him not to take his words lightly…

Autor turned another corner and walked a short distance down the road until he was finally facing the familiar shop front. The building itself seemed to be shrinking back into the shadows, as if it were trying to draw as little attention to itself as possible. He stepped to the door and was reaching for the handle when he noticed the sign. "Closed?"

He peered through the window around the sign. This was definitely unusual. Autor couldn't recall if the shop had always had an open/closed sign, and that frightened him a little, what with all the other changes that the town was going through. Unsurprisingly, he couldn't see anything—the shop had always been dark—but the fact that he couldn't even see the dull glow of the lamp that seemed to be perpetually burning in the back of the store deepened his concern. Where were they? They couldn't seriously be turning a blind eye to all of this!

Autor stepped back a few paces, his body tensing. If those old fools were hiding somewhere in there… Well, he'd just have to get them out, wouldn't he? With that thought, Autor ran at the door, attempting to break it open.

It gave way far too easily and he tumbled forward onto the dusty floor, his glasses skidding away from him. Grumbling, Autor realized that the door had been unlocked the whole time. He thought highly of himself, but even he admitted that he couldn't break a lock that easily. The sign had been a clever trick to keep out the passerby, but why leave the shop unlocked when no one was here? This was the stronghold of the Bookmen, wasn't it? They should know better than to keep a place like this unguarded.

Still kneeling on the floor, Autor reached out, feeling around for his glasses, half expecting his hand to hit a bookcase. It didn't, though, and his hand only closed around the smooth lens of his glasses. Slightly surprised—the place was always so densely packed with books, it was a miracle that he hadn't run into anything by this point—Autor stood up and shut the door, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

His heart stopped beating for a full second, and then continued with a heavy thump.

Everything was gone.

The bookcases, tables, chairs, and what had seemed like an inexhaustible wealth of knowledge—vanished. The store suddenly didn't feel small and cramped anymore; now it more closely resembled an empty cavern. Autor noted for the first time that the walls on the first floor were painted gray. Rectangular spots of dark wood shone on the floor where the bookcases used to stand, surrounded by a thick layer of dust. The stairway up towards the skylight was still there, but now it seemed like nothing but a whimsical addition without the desks and the smaller bookcases adorning it.

"Why?" Autor whispered. It wasn't as though the shop had been moved; the storefront looked the same as ever, and the layer of dust made it look like no one had been there in months, but Autor knew better. The patches where the bookcases once stood, with no evidence of anything dragging them out, almost made it seem as though it had all disappeared on the spot. He walked further inside, leaving light footprints behind him in the dust and stopped as his eyes adjusted further. There was something here.

It was the desk where that old man had always sat; it was still there, like it was keeping vigil. For the longest time, Autor had been nearly convinced that staying at that desk was all that the man was good for, despite knowing his true identity. It had been a good enough disguise to even fool him for a while. Autor thought that the axes had been a little excessive, though.

The lamp still sat there as well, dark for the first time that he'd seen it. A strange feeling surged through Autor. _Those… those idiots!_ he thought. _What is this? I thought that they didn't trust Fakir! Isn't this their job? Why are they just letting him change the town?_

Autor glanced back at the lamp. Part of him wanted to light it, at least for the memory, even though he'd never had an excellent relationship with the Bookmen. It had always been burning, at least to him. Sighing slightly, he turned the switch, letting a tiny flame come to life inside the lamp. Autor stared at it, even though he knew that it wouldn't (couldn't, really) give him an answer to the new question that he had to face.

"What do I do now?"

Just inside the small sphere of light, something on the wall behind the desk glittered and caught his eye. Glancing up, Autor turned the switch again, giving the flame more brilliance. It looked almost as if there was a key jammed into the wall, but that couldn't be right. Walking around the desk, Autor looked closer. It did look an awful lot like a key, or at least the handle of one, since the rest of it was jammed into the wall. It was a dull gold, the carvings on it made to look like what Autor assumed to be vines interlocking, or something similar. As his eyes studied the pattern, he noticed that it wasn't exclusive to the key handle; it spread out to the wall itself, even though it was carved so lightly that it was nearly unnoticeable unless one was already looking at the key. The "vines" continued wrapping around and branching out from one another, making a diamond shape on the wall around the key handle about an inch wide and long from point to point.

Autor blinked, puzzling over this curiosity. The key was about as high as a doorknob would be on a normal door. Maybe this was…

He stood up and turned the key.

The pattern suddenly came alive, extending out from the diamond and the key and ran along the wall, twisting and making what seemed to be muted hissing sounds. Autor tried to jump backwards, but his hand had suddenly become fused to the wall; he glanced down and saw that the dark vines were gripping his fingers, holding them in place.

_Magic?_

Looking back up, Autor saw that the pattern was tracing what looked like the outline of a door along the wall, melting into themselves to give it color. He realized that the pattern wasn't that of vines at all, but strands of ink flecked with gold. They continued moving along the wall, melding into each other, until, in about the space of a minute, Autor was looking at a ebony-colored doorway, outlined in the same dull gold color as the key. The pressure on his fingers let go and the hissing stopped.

Autor pulled back from the door, staring at it as if it were some kind of monster. Out of all the things that he'd seen in the town when it was under the control of the story, this one beat them all. His mind spun with questions. Did the Bookmen have additional powers besides being able to "stop" stories? Was it Fakir's doing? Or was this something else entirely?

The door swung open of its own accord, tempting him inside.

Autor glanced through it warily. If this was some kind of rogue magic, then he wasn't going to play the fool and get himself killed or some other nonsense that always seemed to happen to people in the books that he read.

The only magic in this world is story-spinning, he told himself.

"_What about you? Are you going to continue to stand in the darkness of shattered dreams?"_

Those words came echoing back to him out of nowhere, sounding loud in the empty space despite being only in his head. Autor continued to stare at the door, hesitating for a moment longer, but eventually he worked up his resolve and pulled it open.

A dark stone staircase yawned back at him, an echoing sound coming up from the depths that only air trapped in an underground room could make. It wafted up towards Autor in a cold chill, making his legs shiver. He'd almost decided to turn back around and forget all of this when a torch hanging on the side of the nearby stone wall flared to life. The one hanging next to it lit as well, and the next, and the next, all in sequence until the staircase was completely lit. With the darkness banished, Autor had no choice but to go forward.

The stairway spiraled downwards in a gentle curve, the sound of Autor's footsteps bouncing off the walls and going ahead of him. He followed the stairs down for what seemed like a long time. Once he had started wondering if maybe he was going too deep underground and should be turning back after all, a wooden door appeared in front of him. He tentatively reached out his hand for the door handle, wondering if the same thing that had happened upstairs would happen again, but the door was just a door, and it swung forward on rusty hinges.

Stepping forward into the new dark space, Autor squinted and looked around. He seemed to be in a circular area the size of a small room. A few candles placed on small tables scattered across the room were burning low, only giving off a minimum amount of light, but it was enough to see by once his eyes adjusted. Looking up to see how high the ceiling rose, he was surprised to see that the walls trailed upward into darkness, and he couldn't see the ceiling at all. It must be as high as the staircase I came through, he thought. Leaning against the walls were bookshelves. Autor first thought that the ones that used to be upstairs had been moved down here, but as he continued to look at them, he realized that they weren't the ones that he was used to seeing in the store. They seemed to be as tall as the walls, since they reached off into darkness as well. The books that sat on the worn wooden shelves were dusty and covered with cobwebs… Except for one.

It caught Autor's eye immediately, since it was a different color—a white spine amongst black volumes—and also because it had been pulled out from between the rest of the books but still sat on the shelf, as if it were waiting for someone to pick it up. Autor stared at it for a moment, considering. Had the Bookmen thought that someone would come in here eventually and left the book like that deliberately? Was it some kind of trap? Despite that, his curiosity was getting to him. Autor needed to know why the Bookmen had left and where they had gone. He purposefully walked across the room and picked up the book from the shelf.

Nothing happened; no triggers were pulled and no secret passages were opened. Sighing, Autor turned to the book itself, examining it's blank white cover. No… it wasn't completely white. Something was covering the bottom corners, a dark splotch of some kind. Autor looked closer. Was it… blood?

After staring at the cover for a moment longer and deciding that he was over-thinking things, Autor slowly opened the cover, being careful not to crack the spine. Instead of text, a page of nearly illegible handwritten script stared back at him from the lined pages. Autor looked closer, skimming over the clearer words; the pencil marks had faded over time. _Town… Story… Ravens… Death…_ Autor's pulse quickened as he turned a few more pages. This couldn't be… but why had they kept it all this time, then? Was it some kind of lucky talisman for them? Had they claimed it after his death?

Autor stopped on the next page. Here, instead of written on the clearly marked lines in pencil was a single word, dark and stained as the same strange blotch on the cover. _Betrayed_. There was a prickling feeling on the back of his neck. There was no doubt now; it was definitely blood.

He turned another page.

Even more bloody letters stared up at him, smaller and more carefully written than the single, scrawled word that had covered the previous page, but still carrying a foreboding weight. The blocky letters were clearer that the previous handwriting, and Autor sank to the floor, feeling the slight tug of the spell of words that Drosselmeyer had written.

_**Once upon a time, there was an apprentice that betrayed their master. Despite the fact that the master had taught the apprentice to control and use the skills that came from their shared blood, the apprentice helped the master's enemies find him and kill him. But as the enemies rejoiced and the apprentice was praised, the master still had the spark of life left within him. Unable to finish his current masterpiece, the master set about on making one last crude piece—a curse, written in blood and bound by shared blood. **_

_**And so, the apprentice and his descendants were forever fated to be unable to master the skill that the master had worked so tirelessly to perfect, that is, the art of storyspinning, of bending reality to one's will. But that was not all. The apprentice and his descendants would be bound to help the others with the storyspinning skill, whether it is what they truly desire to do or not. They would be bound—forever an apprentice, never close to becoming a master. **_

Autor stared at the page disbelievingly. It couldn't be true, could it? It was only two paragraphs. Surely such a small amount of words could not hold so much sway, even if they were written by a man who used to control this town? But despite what he told himself, while reading the words again, he could feel the pull of power, faintly resonating in his blood. It was true.

This was why he couldn't write. The thing that he had been obsessed with for years, becoming the next Drosselmeyer, was impossible. He was cursed by a story that had been written in a dying man's blood. He would never, ever beat Fakir. He could not get Rue back. He had nothing except what he felt and what he knew to be the truth about this town.

Autor slammed his fist on the bookshelf, making the volumes shake but not fall. _The Book Men knew this all along, that's why they wouldn't accept me. They knew that I'd never be a threat. I was just a way for them to learn about Fakir. _

It wasn't fair…

He slumped to the floor, Drosselmeyer's bloodied notes falling out of his hand next to him. The candle closest to him flickered, almost going out. He needed a moment to process this. The man that he had admired and idolized most was responsible for denying him the one thing that he wanted. And now he was trapped in his descendant's world, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Autor began to laugh. It started as a short giggle, which slowly grew in volume as it became more of a choking cackle.

"S-So… This is how it is?" He was useless. Maybe he should have realized that earlier in the day when he'd confronted Fakir. If he didn't have powers on par with the storyspinner's, how was he supposed to stand up to him?

Autor pushed himself back up onto his feet, his shocked laughter slowly dying down. He didn't know what steps he was going to take from here, but one thing was for sure; he'd deny Drosselmeyer's curse with everything that he had. Long before coming here, Autor had sworn that he'd never help Fakir again. Finding out about the curse only strengthened his decision.

_I won't give up. I'll find a way to make him change this world back to the way it was. It's obvious that the duck-girl is a soft spot for him… It's not much to go on, but it's a start._

Without a backward glance, Autor walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Unknown to him, all the candles went out.


End file.
